January, 2000

In 1977 Robert K. Greenleaf wrote Servant Leadership: A Journey into the Nature of Legitimate Power and Greatness. The book became a powerful voice in the dialogue to reshape management and leadership policy in U.S. companies. Something as vague as the notion of "servant leadership'' began catching on in big business. It was a novel idea. "Servant leadership,'' however, has been around for a long time. It finds a strong basis in Biblical literature. And within monastic circles it has been a longstanding reality. The Rule of Benedict (RB) implies as much in chapter after chapter.

In 1979, the monks of Tibati in Bogota started Colegio San Benito for the marginalized in a barrio of that large metropolis. Several mothers of students from the monks' first school, Colegio San Carlos (a self-supporting entity), formed a voluntariado to help pupils of the new school by sponsoring occasional fiestas. They were met with a challenge: "It is more important that this group be around in ten years than that they give out suckers at Christmas.''

The women were taken aback. It was an affront. Here they were volunteering "to do good'' and were, it seemed, reprimanded for it. It got them mad. They were ready to complain--and bail out. But they didn't; instead, they organized. They contacted clothing firms in the city and acquired remainders or leftovers. Ten years later they were still going strong. And twenty years later. They also picked up a key element of Benedictine life: Pick a pace that you can maintain over the long haul. That's moderation.

The Servant Leader acts with moderation
Our culture screams "Enough is enough, but too much is just right!'' The search for esoteric and ecstatic experiences is a cottage industry for millions. In such a context it is truly counter-cultural to choose a more disciplined and measured path. The way laid out in RB does just that. The ordinary is respected. Simplicity and disciplined activity are appreciated. Monastics know that an environment forms people. They live by certain maxims: Do ordinary things well. Pay attention to details. Even celebrate the ordinary. These require a controlled passion.

As simple as those exhortations sound, they trace a new vision. Eat good food, exercise, be entertained, do not be prudish. Don't go to extremes or indulge lavish desires. Don't be too hard on yourself; have self-discipline. Moderation is not against enthusiasm, whether youthful or otherwise. It is against entropy. It eschews excess, whether from laziness or burnout. Practitioners of moderation are counter-cultural; they won't have the addiction du jour.

Yet moderation creates a space where people flourish. Things are done in due time. Pacing is important. The question that pops up time after time is simply: Can this be maintained over the long haul? The implication is clear: Community life is a workshop, where people work at the craft of building community with a view to a future. In RB 2:31, the abbot is told: "He must know what a difficult and demanding burden he has undertaken: directing souls and serving a variety of temperaments, coaxing, reproving and encouraging them as appropriate. He must so accommodate and adapt himself to each one's character. . . .''

Part of the ecology of that environment is forgiveness. When people live together, there will be problems. RB is matter-of-fact about that; 12 of its 73 chapters trace measures to deal with the misguided, even recalcitrant. Yet these chapters (23-30, 43-46), do not emphasize punishment. Their undercurrent is that the erring brother is valuable. Solicitousness is to be employed. Pray for him, bring him back into full communion. The directives are a practical expression of an age-old gospel thrust: "Christians are not perfect, just forgiven.'' This elan of forgiveness within a group promotes the ecology of human community. It leads to treating self and others with care.

But, care sustained over the long haul is a tall order. Monastics throughout the centuries have found it a challenge. In the tradition much ink has been spent on acedia--boredom with life, finding the ordinary things of life dull and enervating, falling into a rut, losing out on opportunities, looking out the window, walking to see if someone is coming--and today, checking your e-mail one more time! However, acedia is ultimately about relationships.

Literally, acedia means "lack of care,'' indifference to one's welfare. It can escalate to overt acts of self-destruction, but also destruction of others. It is passive aggression, failure to muster the energy to do anything. It is the opposite of care, for care is anything but passive. "Care'' comes from the Indo-European "to cry out''--to lament.

Care asserts that as difficult and painful as life can be, it is worth something to be in the present, alive, doing one's daily bit. It addresses and acts on the daily needs that acedia would have us suppress and deny. (Kathleen Norris, The Quotidian Mysteries, p. 41)

Care is shown in taking out the garbage, cleaning a room, handling a phone call, or correcting a paper with attention. It reminds us that these are important acts, because they're about relationships. Care moves us beyond "standard operating procedures'' to quality of life issues. When care becomes a corporate ethos, structures reinforce the culture of caring. Within such an institution, the servant leader is, above all, care-full.

The Servant Leader acts out of humility
Newcomers to the Benedictine way of life often find its essence in the stark and grating admonitions of chapter 7 of the RB, the 12 steps of humility. The language can be a turn-off, seemingly antiquated and even psychologically suspect today. Yet, if one can get beyond the jarring language, this chapter is about servant leadership. Those 12 steps are like a workshop on community life. And they will bring to mind other 12-step programs.

Like other 12-step programs, they urge the prospective monastic to "work the program.'' Live the life--and to that end the monastic makes a vow of conversatio morum--and change will take place. The change is not an immediate or even fast process, but it will happen. The 12 steps never promise that one will feel good or will achieve great self-esteem, as other self-help programs might do. They do imply that one will develop gospel values. In the process one will perform a service, both for self and for many others.

Humility is akin to anonymity; it means shunning special status. The humble person concedes: "I'm growing too, I have my issues'' and does not use longevity, previous work, family background, educational opportunities, or anything else as a mark of uniqueness. The RB is relentless in rooting out barriers to mutuality. No one is entitled to special or preferential treatment. The only criterion for "rank'' is one's time of entrance--and that is simply because there must be some order. Nothing kills humility faster than a sense of entitlement. It destroys the possibility of communion.

Such partnership is highlighted in Benedictine life. No one is entitled to privilege. A "we'' emerges. In this respect RB 7 is an antidote to "terminal uniqueness'' that preys on even the most well-intentioned. ("But my case is a special one.'') It bursts the bubbles of illusions. Reality in all its nakedness is left. People living in humble partnership encounter a deep spirituality, an energy that comes from being connected. The energy is not because "we have arrived.'' Rather, this "we'' realizes it's not perfect, but a group striving to become a community. It's a waking up process. Inner work is a deeply personal matter, not necessarily a private matter. Leadership that makes that clear provides a service far beyond the confines of an institution.

In the RB the vice of murmuring is alluded to 11 times. We've all heard, and even said, how destructive it is to have complainers around, people for whom we are "damned if we do and damned if we don't.'' And it's true. Nothing undermines concerted efforts more than even one who breeds discontent. But how does murmuring point to servant leadership? The caveats against murmuring, it appears, are more than denunciations of that behavior, harmful as it is. These admonitions are a subtle pull on the shirtsleeve to do something else. They say: "There's a better way. Learn to work within and change the system. If something needs to be said, say it to the right people. If not, hold your tongue.''

The injunctions against murmuring are, then, the ancient author Benedict's way of promoting "organizational literacy.'' (This can be summed up placard-style as "Stop global whining!'') Each monastic is nudged in the direction of being a servant leader. The injunctions against murmuring have even further implications. They highlight that all in a community are learners of the gospel. A learning culture is to be developed in the community. All members are to be great students.

One of them, a fellow learner and pilgrim, is tapped as abbot, not because he knows more but because he can incite others to learn better, can facilitate the learning process quite effectively. Lack of knowledge is usually not the problem in community life. We know what to do many times. But we don't want to do what we know we should. Motivation, not knowledge, is the issue. An "abba'' encourages us to learn together.

Admonitions against murmuring invite to partnership. In this partnership all have input; inclusiveness is the order of the day. In short, "this is our community; if something needs changing, let's do it. We are on this journey together.'' A leader--always one of "us''--is like yeast or leaven in the bread (see RB 2:5). This down-to-earthness--another name for humility (as is humor)--is not new in Christianity. It is taking the Incarnation seriously, "enfleshing'' here and now what needs to be done. Servant leaders are down-to-earth people. They create a culture of service.

The Servant Leader mentors
In the business of living in community, someone needs to focus the energy so skills are acquired. But this is a slow process. People will need guidance and support. A person who can take on the gentle task of channeling the common energy and of calling forth from individuals their gifts becomes a sacrament of divine life. RB has references to guestmaster, kitchenmaster, novicemaster. Benedictine prep schools carry this further in headmaster. (In our day we have webmasters.) A "master'' directs the services of others. Some of them carry out their service within the community; others are directed toward those who come. In all cases, the "masters'' are "in charge'' of some area of service and thus mentors in the area that corresponds to their care.

The abbot envisioned by RB is the master of masters. He is the one who facilitates, galvanizes the vision, opens the door for others to exercise their abilities, and, in short, empowers. That is, he is the mentor of mentors. Like the good steward of the gospel, the abbot is the steward of the dream. This means not that he has all the good ideas or is a great mover-and-shaker. (Being an abbot is often like being director of an orchestra in which not everyone has the same sheet music!) He, however, articulates the dream and motivates the motley crew, by persuasion more than anything else. He is called to good parenting--and it is therefore, not surprising that he is called abbot, that is, father. Learning such "parenting skills'' is not easy in a culture that provides few examples among adults.

The abbot energizes and affirms, sometimes through confronting. The abbot takes each monk seriously. Taking him seriously means providing guidance, even when a situation is ambiguous or painful or disgusting. The abbot says courageously what needs saying. Yet a key insight of RB needs to be kept in the forefront: An abbot does not have a community; a community has an abbot. His service to the community defines him. It is his job description. The abbot may need to be able to put up with or withstand hatred from one of the monks, but in no case is he to hate one of them. (Individuals who yearn to be loved on a day-to-day basis end up excluding themselves from positions of leadership!) He generates life, does not stifle or kill the spirit, if he is indeed, "abba.''

When working with many people, things often don't fall into neat packages. The disorder can seem rampant. (Is it surprising that Leo XIII once referred to the Benedictines as an Order without order?) Chaos will seem to reign. Part of "working the program'' (as we saw under humility) will be celebrating people: addresses of respect, nods, gestures (pats on the back, handshakes, even a hug), kind words that are to be on the lips of those who serve (see RB 31:13ff on the cellarer).

A significant way Benedictines celebrate people is through rituals. Monastics have a penchant for ritual because rituals unite the disparate. Some rituals are obvious: receiving new members, blessing an abbot, dedicating new buildings, celebrating milestones. Others are mundane: commissioning for a new job, inauguration of a new hymn book, a bow toward the altar, the inclination during the Glory Be, the way things are done in the community room--and a thousand details which vary from house to house.

Rituals bring order out of chaos and give a sense of direction. No one of them is an end in itself (though, Lord knows, some simply go through the motions). But the rituals have a formative effect. When they are woven into the lives of people, something happens. They tutor participants in shared values. Benedictines have, with good reason, become associated with the liturgy. The evolution is a natural one.

Rituals highlight relationships. Any project "we'' undertake together may pass, but the relationships we have with one another will remain and hopefully grow. Rituals are a language, the language of relationships. It is a language we strive to become fluent in. When the language becomes the poetry of daily life, a disparate group of people becomes a community of service. Those animating the process recede. An abbot leads as servant, often vigorously and at great personal cost, but not to call attention to self. If he appears to be exalted in the process, it is only because the community he mentors is valuable. And others emerge as leaders because many are servants. That's the blessing of monastic life well lived.

Servant leadership is the very texture of Benedict's vision. In the prologue (45-48) he lays down parameters for its development: "Therefore, we must establish a school for the Lord's Service. In its organization, we have tried not to create anything grim or oppressive. In a given case we may have to arrange things a bit strictly to correct vice or preserve charity. When that happens, do not immediately take fright and flee the path of salvation, which can only be narrow at its outset." Monastic life is a school whose goal or objective is clear: service. But from the School of the Lord's Service there is no graduation. It has no end. Until the end